


The One Where Geralt Isn't Welcome

by NerdyBirdy6602



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:01:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25939330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyBirdy6602/pseuds/NerdyBirdy6602
Summary: Of course Jaskier just needed an inn for the evening. It couldn't wait until the next familiar town, where Geralt could assure that they would both be welcomed. Knowing it was a bad idea, he indulged in Jaskier's human needs. What else was he to do for his travelling partner?...His reception is about as pleasant as he would expect.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 246





	The One Where Geralt Isn't Welcome

Geralt never stayed in one place very long, unless it was Kaer Morhen for the winter, but he always left an impression. There were many towns where he’d been hailed a hero, the slayer of whatever monster plagued their home. They’d promise him a free room whenever he was in the area, or even a round of ale on the house. Many would often settle for Jaskier singing his most famous ballad about the White Wolf, to which the bard would always accept. Geralt tried to stop in those towns most often, rather than a new one every time. However, his bard had other ideas today.

“Geralt, we haven’t stopped in an inn for what feels like months,” he whines, trailing slightly behind Roach. “My back aches on the forest floor. If I sleep there one more night, I’ll surely die!”

Geralt gave his signature grunt, rolling his eyes as he carried on with Roach. He knew of a town nearby, but he knew nothing of how he would be deceived. He did try to give Jaskier some rest now and again. These past few weeks, not the months Jaskier implied, had just been rougher than usual. Geralt had been given fewer bounties, and those he were given often didn’t have to end in death. With a heavy sigh, he brought Roach to a halt and glanced back at his tired bard.

“There’s a town a few hours away,” he admits begrudgingly. “We can stay there for a night or two, but you may have to pay our way through a few ballads.”

Geralt watched Jaskier brighten as he spoke, seeing the younger man’s face light in a smile and his cornflower blue eyes shine with gratitude. Secretly, this made the uncertain trip worth it. Jaskier’s joy was undeniably satisfying, and he listened to him already prepare his song list. The endless chatter, though it could often be annoying, was now the perfect distraction from Geralt’s own thoughts. He gave an appropriate hum as needed to encourage Jaskier’s conversation, but remained mute and stony-faced otherwise. As they neared the town hours later, as promised, Geralt realized he was holding Roach’s reins with an iron grip.

The sun was setting on the horizon by the time they got there, the streets eerily quiet to Jaskier’s human ear. To Geralt’s enhanced senses, it was a cacophony of whispered gossip from those who stood at their windows and watched. Many were just curious about the strange, solemn man with the happy-go-lucky bard at his hip. Others, though… Others whispered of The Butcher of Blaviken, the mutant without a soul. In their eyes, it took a monster to hunt a monster. 

They finally reached a bustling inn, a raucous party coming from within that even Jaskier could hear. To him, this only brightened his view of the town as it made him believe they were fun-loving people who would enjoy a good performance. To Geralt, it meant more people could witness his entrance. He’d never liked the spotlight, whether he’s cast in a good light or a bad one. Shaking his head, the Witcher dismounted and tied Roach to the fencepost for the time being. He also took the time to check his pockets for orens, just in case Jaskier’s services weren’t enough.

When he entered the inn with his bard, the din immediately quieted. Some greeted him with friendly faces, as if they’d been waiting for the Witcher to come for some time. Others seemed indifferent to his presence, glancing over at him before going back to their drink. Despite this, the Witcher could still feel eyes on him from the corner of the room that were certainly burning a hole in the back of his head. If looks could kill…

“Good evening, Witcher,” the barmaid called, giving an amicable smile. “To you too, bard. I imagine you’re looking for two rooms? That’ll cost you, I’m afraid. You’d leave me without any vacancy.”

Jaskier took this moment to pipe up. “Good evening, m’lady! My friend and I are on a budget, actually, so one room will fit us both. I, in return, can offer the performance of a lifetime! Will that suffice?”

The barmaid looks thoughtful, but nods after a moment. “You’ll still be paying for whatever ale you drink, but a performance for a room sounds fair. We’ll have a stage set for you within the hour.”

She slides the key along the countertop, eyeing the Witcher once more before gesturing to a room down the hall for them to set their things. She also directs him to the stables so Roach would be taken care of. Jaskier, as always, remains the chattier one and thanks her for her hospitality as he grabs the key. Geralt trudges after him, carrying his swords on his back and his potion bag in his hands.

“Looks like we’ll be sharing the bed again, dear Geralt. I figured you’d rather save the coin for when we need it,” the bard explains as he sets his pack in the nearby cabinet. With deft fingers, he gently uncases his precious lute and sets it on the bed. Then, he glances up to Geralt, realizing the Witcher hasn’t offered the slightest noise as acknowledgement. Frowning, he asks, “You’re brooding again. What’s going on? Talk to me.”

Geralt hesitates, wanting to tell him that there may be an incident this evening involving a few people who find him unpleasant, but he doesn’t. He wanted to spare the man some worry, and decided to merely shake his head and answer, “Not brooding. Tired.”

Jaskier continues to pout, gathering his lute in his hands as he asks, “Will you still watch the performance this evening? Much of my work involves you, after all.”  
The Witcher gives him a small, half smirk at his friend. The man did put on a great show wherever he went, although he would never admit it aloud. Rather than giving fuel to Jaskier’s ego, he simply answers, “Don’t I always?”

That was all the encouragement Jaskier needed to drag him into the bar, where conversation had resumed in his absence. The makeshift stage was set for Jaskier and, although it wasn’t the grandest stage his presence had ever graced, he was thrilled nevertheless. Meanwhile, the Witcher ordered himself a beer and found himself a table secluded in the back corner. He listened casually as Jaskier opened with “Toss A Coin To Your Witcher,” a song that always managed to make Geralt uncomfortable. He didn’t take compliments well, especially when most of what was sung wasn’t true. Still, he suffered through it for his companion.

It didn’t take long for a few gruff-looking men to approach Geralt’s table, sitting down before him. The Witcher knows this won’t end well, and part of him wishes he’d just stayed in the room until tomorrow morning. His golden gaze passes over the men questioningly, waiting for them to confront him first.

“We don’t want your kind here,” the first stated, his anger rolling off of him in waves. “The Butcher of Blaviken is not welcome here. Your bard too, sir.”

Geralt huffs, lowering his head and sipping his drink. He nudges his head towards the bard, still singing to an eager crowd. “The bard has already started paying for our room. We’ll be gone by morning. I don’t intend to stay, as it would seem there are no bounties for me to collect in this town.”

The other man grew furious, slamming his fist against the wooden table. “You’re cursed, Witcher! Wherever you go, misfortune follows. The morning isn’t quick enough. You need to leave by midnight, or else expect this inn to be the last thing you ever see. What we would give to rid the world of yet another monster…”

Geralt rolls his eyes, hiding the way his heart squeezed uncomfortably in his chest at the accusation. He stands, leaving his coin on the table and deciding to head to the room instead. He’d rather deal with Jaskier’s disappointment than a fistfight. However, the Witcher felt a hand grip his greaves. Reluctantly, he turns to face the men only to feel one of them spit in his face. The Witcher grimaces, raising a hand to wipe it away.

“Hey there! You two, hands off the Witcher,” the bard calls out from the stage, quickly pushing through the crowd to reach his friend. “He’s with me, gentlemen. You’ll find that he won’t cause any trouble around here. Now, please, why don’t we all sit down and—”

“No can do, bard,” the second man speaks again. “You must not understand that you travel with a monster. He’s a ruthless beast, one that can’t feel a damned thing. He leaves a curse wherever he walks. The town wants him gone.”

Jaskier blinks, astonished by the nerve of these men. Delicately, he hands his lute to Geralt, leaving him to stare in confusion. Before Geralt can give any warning, Jaskier gives each man a solid punch to the face. Both men groaned and cursed, noses resting in odd angles and bleeding furiously. Geralt almost felt bad.

Almost.

“If I hear you say anything like that again,” Jaskier warns, looking far more dangerous than he ever had. “If you even look at him the wrong way, you’ll have me to deal with. Now, fuck off!”

They didn’t have to be told twice, the men scurrying back over to their alcohol to sit and brood. Jaskier brushed a hand against knuckles that would surely bruise by tomorrow. He tosses the barmaid a pouch of orens with a small smile before leading Geralt to their room. “Change of plans, ladies, gentleman, and the two bastards in the back. Good night!”

Geralt let himself follow Jaskier out, forcing himself to hold his head high. No one had ever defended him in such a way before. Sure, there were those that liked him, but they never stood up for him when he faced those who despised him. It warmed the heart that he wasn’t supposed to have, but also tinged it with guilt. Jaskier had been so excited to perform, and the outburst caused by him had ruined that.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbles, watching Jaskier unlock their door. “You seemed so ready to play for these people.”

Jaskier sighs softly, leading the Witcher in and sitting on the bed. Glancing up at the Witcher, his eyes looked uncharacteristically sad. “Any crowd that doesn’t accept you cannot accept me, dear Geralt. You’re a hero, whether you like to admit it or not. They know the myth, not the man. I’m lucky enough to know both, and I can tell you most of them are wrong. You’re no monster, and certainly no Butcher. Humans don’t deserve you kindness, when all they do is hurt you.”

“It doesn't bother me,” Geralt says as he sits beside him, trying to ease the man’s frustrations. “Have you ever considered that you’re biased?”

Jaskier laughs, smiling at what he thought to be a ridiculous statement. “Not in the slightest. I judged you when we first met, but never again. I too called you the Butcher of Blaviken… but I was wrong. You punched me for a good reason that day in Posada. I’d earned it. Now that I know you, I also know that you do care, a least a little bit. You want to do right by these people even though they wrongfully hate you. That’s far more brave than this little bard could ever be.”

Geralt sighs, standing again and turning himself away as he states, “I’m washing up. It’s been a long day.”

And so Geralt disappears into the washroom for a long while, first stripping off his Witcher armor. Then, he washed his face in order to rid himself of the man’s spit. He looks in the mirror and studies the golden orbs that stare back at him. Once upon a time, they had been as blue as Jaskier’s eyes, human and soft. His skin had once had warmer undertones than this pale countenance. Those memories were faint, but ever-present as he reminded himself of what he could never be again.

He couldn’t say how long he’d stared into the mirror in nothing but his under clothes. It could have been minutes, hours, or some length in between. He was shaken out of his trance-like state by a knock at the door. When he didn’t answer, he could hear Jaskier sit in front of the door. So, a conversation was inevitable then.

“Geralt, are you aware that you think awfully loud? I can hear it from the next room. It’s a lot of brooding and guilt,” Jaskier jokes, trying to lighten the mood before sighing. “I knew you didn’t want to come here, but I didn’t know why. It’s because of this, isn’t it? People who shove your mythical history in your face like they really know you. I’m sorry, Geralt. I didn’t realize… I didn’t think they would be so bold. Can you please come out? We need rest, and I think it’d be better if you weren’t alone with your thoughts tonight.”

Geralt grumbles under his breath, realizing the bard was right. He couldn’t stand in the mirror all night, and he was weary down to his very bones. Sleep was beckoning in the back of his mind, but his thoughts were much louder. He doesn’t open the door yet, instead standing before it as if he was looking at Jaskier himself. If he can’t see the bard’s face, then this conversation suddenly becomes much easier.

“I didn’t ask to be this way,” he offers as a manner of explaining his sullen mood. “I didn’t want to be a monster. I never asked for any of this.”

“You aren’t a monster,” Jaskier murmurs through the door, his heart sinking. “You haven’t done a damn thing wrong, if I’m to be completely honest. You didn’t even fight those bastards who literally spit on you. You’re nothing short of a saint, Geralt.”

Geralt hums, and then admits, “Humans are the worst monsters I’ve ever faced.”

Jaskier is silent for a moment, and Geralt fears he’s insulted him. After all, the bard himself was a human too. Geralt hoped that it went without saying that Jaskier was separated from the average human. Jaskier’s greatest crime was making the wrong nobleman a cuckold, and even then he didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. All he did, he did for the sake of those he cared for, including his occasional flings.

“I understand,” Jaskier says instead, sounding empathetic rather than angry. “My fellow man doesn’t always treat me kindly either. I… I never told you where I came from, or why I sometimes introduce myself as Julian Alfred Pankratz instead of Jaskier. I was once a Viscount of Lettenhove, destined to be a great nobleman at the hands of my father. I tried, as I often do, to please everyone. Everyone, that is, except for myself. I wanted to be a poet and… that was the end of Julian mostly. My choice was to either be miserable in my keep, or be disowned and happy. Obviously, I chose the latter. I don’t regret it, but the rejection of my entire people, all of Lettenhove… it wasn’t pleasant.”

Geralt listened with rapt attention, soaking in Jaskier’s tale. It was true that the bard had alluded to a poor connection with his family, but he’d never outright said why. Now, the Witcher realized that they weren’t all that different in the end. Jaskier had been rejected too, he had merely learned to live with it. Without further hesitation, Geralt opened the door to see Jaskier’s bittersweet smile from where he sat on the floor. Helping him rise to his feet, the Witcher gave a hum of appreciation. Jaskier must have known what it meant because he gave the taller man a tight hug, one that Geralt returned.

“Let me play with your hair before we call it a night,” Jaskier pleaded softly. “I know you’ll never admit it, but it does calm you and your hair is a mess. Please? I’ll be careful.”

Geralt groaned, as he hated admitting weakness, even if it was only to Jaskier. He gave himself the half-hearted excuse that Jaskier may need something to distract from his previous anger. He definitely wasn’t letting Jaskier drag him to the bed because he wanted to feel the smaller man’s hands card through his hair. No, definitely not.

And that was how Geralt found himself dozing in and out of sleep, Jaskier gently combing and then braiding his long, white locks. The bard was also humming a soft lullaby, something that eased the Witcher’s tired soul. Geralt’s hand found its way to Jaskier’s thigh, tracing nonsense patterns with his eyes closed. Jaskier didn’t realize the man fell asleep until his patterns finally slowed and, eventually, stopped. The bard chuckled at the man’s exhaustion, but finished the braids a few minutes later. With a gentle touch, Jaskier lay Geralt on the bed beside him. He looked so peaceful in sleep, and Jaskier was pleased that he had such an effect on the man. Jaskier went to get up to strip into his under clothes, but found that a heavy hand held him back.

Geralt’s golden eyes, barely opened, gave Jaskier a pleading expression he’d never seen before. It was a vulnerability the bard had never seen from the man. The Witcher’s face was often lacking expression, leaving Jaskier to learn the language of grunts rather than reading him like any other person. But this was something entirely different, and Jaskier knew this took a great amount of trust on the other man’s behalf. He accepted it gracefully.

“Stay,” Geralt whispers longingly, still holding him back. “It’s late.”

Jaskier hums, smiling down at the Witcher. “I wasn’t going anywhere, dear. Just removing my doublet. I’ll unfortunately need my hand back though. I’m well acquainted with stripping to my underclothes, but I still must use both.”

Geralt immediately releases, mumbling something that sounded like an apology. Jaskier paid him no mind, and instead stripped faster than he’d ever done before, sneaking back under the covers. He brushes the silvery hair off of scarred skin and chuckles, observing the way Geralt immediately eased into the touch. He’d have to remember this for future bad days. The White Wolf could be cared for with a cuddle. Before Jaskier could whisper any further reassurances, he felt his friend’s heavy arm lay across his waist and pull him closer. The bard knew that he wouldn’t be able to move until morning, but it didn’t bother him. His Witcher was happy and, he discovered, that made Jaskier the happiest bard in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I hoped you all enjoyed this. I've never posted works anywhere, so let me know what you think and if you'd like to see more! Be kind, but constructive criticism is always welcome. Have a lovely day! :)


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